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by klaviergavout



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Gen, i just needed to get some big angst out of my system and what better than the vault, this is a vent fic so please don't expect anything good whatsoever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5533916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klaviergavout/pseuds/klaviergavout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, he knew he'd die. And nothing would ever matter again.</p>
            </blockquote>





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Hatchworth hated the Vault.  
  
It was pitch black inside, save for the soft glow of blue coming from within his core. Even that was slowly beginning to wane.  
  
He felt the chill of the air on his back, on his neck, on his hands, _in his boiler._  
  
It was cold.  
  
It was too cold.  
  
He was convinced that if he didn't die from water shortage or a lack of oil, his insides would freeze and he'd shudder to a halt, his body racking with uncontrollable and jolted movements.  
  
At least, that's what he kept thinking, over and over. It haunted his days, and his nights, and the scraps of his own broken thoughts.  
  
Line after line covered the walls. He had drawn them all with his one good hand, scraping his finger down the rigid, lead-lined shell of the vault. It was ironic to him that, even now, he should act like a prisoner. He was far from imprisonment. This was  a lot more like an act of murder.  
  
Of course, it'd never be the Walters' fault. It was never them, was it? Watching his brothers and sisters fight against an onslaught of humans, their chassis strewn about as they fell. Hatchworth remembered it, remembered the smell of the blood beneath his feet, the feel of mud on metal. And he had never forgotten, nor forgiven the Walters for sending them off, for making their lives a living hell.  
  
Besides, any time the Walters needed something desperately- such as, in this hypothetical case, a scapegoat- they'd make a deal with the Beciles. And the Beciles made Hatchworth's teeth grind in his jaw, made his non-existent heart beat fast and vehement in its rage. The Beciles had tried to kill Rabbit in the name of research and bitter, cruel rivalry. The Beciles were responsible for the green matter inside of his siblings; but no, no, they wouldn't taint him, they would _never_ taint him. Hatchworth knew he'd rather cut himself open than ever let a Becile near him.  
  
  
But there was nothing worse for _him_ , he reckoned, than the Vault. It had been far too long, and he was weak. He was numb. A shell of who he once was and who he had aspired to be. And he was going to die alone. All alone.  
  
Sometimes, if he listened really hard, he could hear some of the Walters' voices outside in the corridor. Sometimes, he could hear Rabbit and The Spine, having fun and talking as they would normally if nothing at all was wrong. And he hugged his knees tight and imagined the wonderous stories they used to tell each other, down to every last detail. He ignored the stream of oily tears running down his face and soiling his clothes. He ignored how the sobs made his body rack with internal pain, with silent pleas of help to anyone who'd bear to listen to someone so far gone.  
  
He ignored the loneliness, because soon, it wouldn't even matter any more.


End file.
